


Something Powerful Between Your Thighs

by Bunnywest



Series: Thighs Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biker AU, Biker Chris Argent, Biker Peter Hale, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Try This At Home, Explicit Sexual Content, Grindr, Light Bondage, M/M, Manhandling, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Someone called this BDSM-Lite and they're not wrong, Stiles is a good boy for his Sir, Theo is a dick, no seriously, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Someone’s actually replied.Fuck.I’ll give you what you need, pretty boy. And you can call me Sir.The hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck prickle at that, and his dick throbs. He clicks on the profile and the picture that pops up isUN-FUCKING-FAIR. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, nobody should look like that. The man’s staring into the camera, a smile that’s almost a sneer on his face. And what a face it is. Intense blue eyes, cheekbones like cut glass, and a strong jawline covered in the perfect amount of stubble. His neck, what Stiles can see of it, is thickly muscled, and Stiles can see the beginnings of a tattoo that travels down. There’s the tiniest scattering of grey at his temples, and Stiles breathes out, “Oh yes,Sir,” as he drinks in the details on the profile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the Steter Reverse Bang, with marvelous art by  
> [Platypusesrneat](https://platypusesrneat.tumblr.com/post/185471774659/for-my-second-submission-into-the)  
> The prompt was Biker gang leader Peter and Pet Stiles.  
> This is...something like that.  
> A giant shout out to Twisted_Mind for all her hand holding and encouragement through this, It would have been a lot more trashy without her guidance!
> 
>  
> 
> (Disclaimer - This was a pinch hit. I know nothing about dating apps except what the internet taught me. If I got it totally wrong....shhhh. Go with it.)  
> ALSO -  
> Stiles met a stranger on the internet.  
> Stiles went home with him and took no precautions for his own safety.  
> Don't be like Stiles.
> 
> I mean, it goes without saying, but don't ever be dumb enough to get on a bike and take off with a total stranger for a night of wild sex. Even if he *does* look like Peter Hale. That way lies murder, or getting sold off to white slave traders.  
> Play safe, kids.

 

 

It all starts with Grindr.

Stiles downloads the app with every intention of using it. He’s reasonably new to the city, young, single and DTF. He sets up his profile, including a body shot that shows from his chin to his hips and highlights the length of his body, but he keeps his face hidden, because safety first, right?  The picture makes him look long and lean and kinda sexy, with his jeans partly unzipped and hanging low on his hips, happy trail clearly visible, and the hint of a bulge in his pants. (It took him fourteen tries in the mirror before he was satisfied with the shot.) His username gives him pause for a second, but in the end, he goes with PrettyBoy22. 

He lists his age, height, weight, and that he’s a bottom who’s looking to hook up, but it’s…bland, somehow exactly like a dozen other profiles he’s seen. It needs something catchy to make it stand out, he decides - possibly fueled by the rum and Coke he’s drinking.

He thinks about what he likes, what he should ask for. It’s not like anyone he knows will ever see it, he reasons. With that in mind, he goes for something between honest and flirty.

Stiles has always liked it when someone manhandles him a little, tells him what to do. But that doesn’t mean he wants some caveman type who’s going to pin him to the wall and call him “bitch”. Stiles wants someone masterful, but he’s no masochist. It’s a fine line. In the end, he settles for

_Treat me nice and let me call you Daddy - or Sir. You decide. I’m just a lonely boy who’s new to town and looking for a guiding hand. Think you know what’s best for me? Then you could be just what I need. (Not into painplay or humiliation.)_

He reads it through and thinks, _good enough._

He hits post.

He stares at the screen for a good five minutes, somehow disappointed that his perfect partner hasn’t popped up already. Isn’t that the point of this thing? That he doesn’t have to go out to clubs, that somehow the gods of sex will send what he wants directly to his door?

He looks his photo over critically, wondering if he should have kept his shirt on and hidden how pale he is, or maybe set it to black and white so it looks artistic rather than pathetic. Maybe he should forget the whole thing.  His thumb’s hovering over the delete button when his phone pings, startling Stiles so badly that he nearly drops it.

Someone’s actually replied.

Fuck.

_I’ll give you what you need, pretty boy. And you can call me Sir._

The hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck prickle at that, and his dick throbs. He clicks on the profile and the picture that pops up is _UN-FUCKING-FAIR_. Jesus Christ on a bicycle, nobody should look like that. The man’s staring into the camera, a smile that’s almost a sneer on his face. And what a face it is. Intense blue eyes, cheekbones like cut glass, and a strong jawline covered in the perfect amount of stubble. His neck, what Stiles can see of it, is thickly muscled, and Stiles can see the beginnings of a tattoo that travels down. There’s the tiniest scattering of grey at his temples, and Stiles breathes out, “Oh yes, _Sir,_ ” as he drinks in the details on the profile.

_Username: Alwaysthealpha36._

_White, single, 5’ 11”_

_Don’t know what you need? Don’t worry. I’ll help you find out. Looking for a sweet thing who craves a guiding hand._

It doesn’t escape Stiles’s notice that they’ve both used the same phrase in their description. Maybe this won’t be a washout after all. He keeps reading. Apparently _Alwaysthealpha_ is looking for casual, and he likes to be in control. He describes himself as firm but fair.

 _Boxes fucking ticked_ , thinks Stiles.

Stiles types a reply, but he hits send too early.

**Hey**

Shit. He’s fucked up already. Stiles frowns at the offending chat bubble as though it’s somehow responsible for this.

But then a new message comes through. Stiles holds his breath as he opens it.

_I think you mean Hey Sir, don’t you sweetheart? And hello to you, too._

**Hello, Sir. Sorry, I got excited and hit send.**

_Oh dear. Suffering from premature communication?_

Stiles snickers at that. He sends back **I guess I’m just eager.**

There’s a short delay before the next message arrives.

_Is that so? Does that mean you’re interested in letting me show you a good time?_

Stiles can’t type out his reply fast enough.

**Yes. Yes Sir. Definitely.**

_You’re only a mile from me. Send me a meeting point and I’ll come collect you. Tell me, how do you feel about something powerful between your thighs?_

Stiles shoots back **I mean, that’s why I’m on here, right?**  

He follows it with the address of the hotel on the corner, because he’s not letting a stranger know where he lives. Even getting picked up’s probably a bad idea, but it’s been a long time, and he _wants._

_Excellent. There in ten minutes. Prepare to hold on tight._

A picture follows of a gorgeous Harley, all chrome and leather, and Stiles just about swallows his tongue, because not only is this guy as hot as fuck, but he rides a bike? It’s like all of Stiles’s fantasies got together and decided to throw him a party. God bless technology.

**I’ll be waiting, Sir.**

Stiles takes the time grab a shower and make sure he’s thoroughly clean, then brush his teeth and throw on a fresh shirt and some decent jeans, the ones that hug his ass just right. At the last minute he grabs a jacket, because motorbike. He’s only been on one a few times, but it turns him on like nothing else, something about the raw power and the edge of danger setting his heart racing.

His phone’s been making noises while he showered, and he grins when he sees a string of other replies on his profile. He doesn’t answer them, doesn’t even look at them as he turns off notifications. For tonight at least, he’s good.

* * *

 

He hears the bike before he sees it, the pipes almost obnoxiously loud, and he wonders briefly if the guy’s compensating for something with the bike and the attitude, but then he forgets to wonder because the bike comes to a stop in front of him, and when the driver takes his helmet off Stiles nearly creams his jeans right then and there. Pictures didn’t do this guy justice. He dismounts with sinuous grace, before quirking an eyebrow at Stiles. “Please tell me you’re waiting for me, pretty boy?”

Stiles can feel himself beaming. “Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” The man smiles, and it’s devastating. He extends a hand. “I’m Peter.”

Stiles takes it, replying, “Stiles.” The eyebrow’s raised again, and Stiles can see the man’s disbelief, so he adds, “It’s a nickname. Real one’s a nightmare. Polish.”

Peter’s expression shifts to one of understanding. “Ever been on a bike before, Stiles?” he asks, and Stiles nods. His name sounds good in Peter’s mouth. Peter grabs a second helmet and tosses it at him and Stiles slips it on, still grinning.  He waits until Peter’s mounted the bike before climbing on behind him. “Hold on tight, pretty boy,” Peter says, then he starts the bike with a roar and takes off.

Stiles keeps his arms wrapped tight around Peter’s midsection. Normally he’d be hesitant, but given where they’re going and what they’re planning on doing, it seems a little superfluous to wonder if Peter minds the close contact.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself soak up the experience, leaning in with Peter when they corner, enjoying the wind whipping at his skin and the thrum of the motor. It’s a disappointingly short ride. Peter pulls into the underground carpark of one of the nicer apartment buildings in town, and places a hand on the small of Stiles’s back, guiding him to the elevator. Once inside, he crowds Stiles against the wall and kisses him without asking, one hand pinning Stiles’s wrists above his head. Stiles lets out a breathy moan when they part.

“Well don’t you sound delicious?” Peter chuckles, low and sinful. He runs his other hand through Stiles’s hair before kissing him again, not stopping until they reach his floor. The sound of the doors opening pulls Stiles out of the haze he’d been sinking into. He suspects that if Peter fucks as well as he kisses, Stiles might be in for the night of his life.

* * *

 

 

Peter strides out of the elevator, and Stiles follows him eagerly. This whole thing is mind-blowing  - he’s heard stories, but he didn’t actually think he’d end up finding someone to have sex with right away. Yet here he is, barely an hour after making his profile, in the apartment of a stranger, and there’s no awkwardness, no wondering if they’re crossing a line, just a mutual agreement that they plan to have a good time together.

This leaves his small California hometown in the dust.

Once they walk in the door Peter strips out of his leather jacket, and Stiles can see more of the tribal tattoo that snakes down his throat, disappearing into a tight v neck. “The ink’s hot,” he says without thinking.

Peter gives him a seductive smile. “You like that? I have more.” He steps into Stiles’s personal space to slip his jacket off as well, dropping it on a chair with his own. He puts firm hands on Stiles’s hips, pulling him closer, leaning in to kiss up the side of Stiles’s neck, nudging at him so his head’s tilted back, exposing his throat. “You have such a pretty throat, sweetheart. I want to sink my teeth into it.” It occurs to Stiles far too late that maybe he should have set some boundaries instead of just agreeing to this, but Peter seems to sense his unease, and pulls back. “Relax, pretty boy, I’m teasing. But we do need to talk.” He steers Stiles over to a leather couch and Stiles sits obediently. Peter sits next to him, one hand stroking the back of Stiles’s hand. “Grindr virgin?” Peter asks knowingly.

“How’d you guess?” Stiles wonders what he did to give himself away.

Peter just raises that eyebrow again. “Well, most people at least attempt to get a name, and want to talk about what they expect before agreeing to meet. You, on the other hand, have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.”

And shit, he has a point. Stiles figures he can’t be a serial killer though, or Stiles’s body would already be in the freezer by now. Still. He can imagine the lecture his dad would give him if he ever found out. Which he’s _definitely_ never going to. “Yeah, I maybe dropped the ball on that one,” Stiles admits. “But in my defense, have you seen you? I didn’t want you to be the one that got away.”

Peter throw back his head and laughs. “I like you, Stiles. And lucky for you, I made sure to scoop you up before someone less savory got their hands on you.” He leans in and tugs at Stiles’s earlobe with his teeth, sending a frisson of excitement running through him. “Not that rescuing you was any kind of hardship,” Peter adds, licking a broad stripe up Stiles’s neck.

Stiles whimpers. Peter speaks, huffing hot breath against his wet skin. “Delicious boy. Now tell me, what exactly do you want me to do to you?”

 _Don’t say ‘you can do anything’ don’t say ‘you can do anything’,_ Stiles recites to himself, determined to prove he’s not a total loser.  What comes out is, “You’re in charge, Sir,” which really, isn’t much better. 

Peter lifts his head from where he’s kissing Stiles’s throat and gives a wicked smirk. “Oh, sweetheart. That word’s so pretty coming out of your mouth. Say it again.”

“Yes, Sir.” Stiles swallows at the hunger he sees in Peter’s eyes. It’s almost predatory. Right now, Stiles thinks he wouldn’t mind if Peter did eat him up. Peter crowds Stiles back into the couch and straddles him, running his hands through Stiles’s hair and pressing their bodies close. Stiles can feel the bulge in Peter’s jeans, and thinks dimly, _not compensating, then._

Peter kisses him slow and deep and filthy, one hand staying in his hair, the other sliding under the hem of his shirt. His palms are broad and warm, and Stiles melts into the touch. Peter pulls away, tilting his head for a moment. “Sweetheart, how much rum have you had, exactly? Not judging, just curious.”

Stiles blinks slowly, because that wasn’t what he was expecting. “Two drinks? Is that okay?”

Peter relaxes, and his hand starts moving over Stiles’s skin again. “Two’s fine. I’d just hate to think I’m about to seduce someone who can’t say yes.”

“Yeah, well. Consider that ship sailed. Yes to everything,” Stiles says, his voice unsteady as Peter tweaks one nipple, just enough for it to sting.

“Yes, what?” Peter asks, and his fingers tug a little harder, making Stiles squeal and jogging his memory.

“ _Yes, Sir_ ,” he cries out, and Peter rewards him by grinding up against him, making his cock throb at the contact.

“Good boy,” he purrs. “Let me take care of you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t understand how, but Peter’s able to take charge in a way that has Stiles eager to follow his every direction. He’d been worried it might be demeaning, nothing like his fantasies, but every time Peter tells him to do something and he does it, Peter’s there crooning what a good boy he is, how he’s so perfect for Sir, and Stiles is _so fucking into it._ He always knew he was a sucker for praise, but this is a whole other level. It’s almost frightening.

He follows Peter’s every instruction, and Peter rewards him with more skin, more touching, more kisses, until finally they’re both naked. Stiles takes the time to run his fingers over the tattoo that runs all the way down Peter’s neck, following it where it flows down one side of his chest, before getting his mouth on Peter’s dick. He sucks him off, slow and wet and messy, and Peter honest-to-god growls when he pulls out and comes all over Stiles’s face.

Stiles thought he’d be getting fucked tonight. He wonders if he still will, now that Peter’s blown his load. He doesn’t have much time to worry about it though, because the next thing he knows, Peter’s picked him up from where he’s kneeling on the floor ( _hellooo manhandling_ ), laid him out across the bed, and has Stiles’s cock halfway down his throat. Stiles comes in a matter of minutes, maybe losing some time and a few braincells with the force of his orgasm.

He feels Peter’s body land on the bed next to him, but doesn’t open his eyes, enjoying the warmth radiating off him. Peter runs hot. And it seems he runs hot in more ways than one. “You with me, pretty?” he murmurs in Stiles’s ear, close enough that Stiles can’t miss what’s prodding him in his thigh, and how is Peter hard again _already?_

It makes something niggle in Stiles’s brain, but he’s past chasing it right now, settling for a sound that might be a ‘yes’. Peter laughs softly. “I want to get inside that sweet ass of yours, so get on your hands and knees when you feel ready. Can you do that for me?”

 

“Yessir,” Stiles squeaks. He takes a moment, then rolls onto his front and gets his legs under him, ass presented like an offering. He goes to push up on his arms, but Peter lays a hand on his hip. “No. Stay like that. It’s perfect,” he rasps.

 

Stiles stays where he is, and Peter climbs on the bed behind him. Then there are fingers and lube and Peter telling him he’s perfect, and the stretch is just right, making him squirm and pant. “Please, Sir, I’m ready,” he begs, even though he knows he probably isn’t. He’s always been impatient.

Peter ignores him and adds a third finger. And okay, maybe Stiles can admit he isn’t quite there yet. He hisses between his teeth and Peter has the cheek to laugh at him, even if the laugh is breathless. He leans forward and whispers, “I can tell when you’re lying, sweetheart. You’re ready when I say you’re ready.”

Stiles would argue, but he doesn’t want to risk Peter taking those talented hands away, so instead he grits out another, “Yes, Sir.”

Peter lets out a pleased sound, and works his fingers deeper, teasing and stretching until Stiles is begging him to _please Sir, please, please fuck me._

Finally, Stiles hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper, feels the hand on one hip holding him in place as Peter slowly eases inside, and it’s so good he might cry. He definitely makes embarrassing whining noises, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind, calling Stiles his perfect boy and giving him what he needs. Stiles arches his back and spreads his legs, making room for Peter to move, and luxuriates in the feeling of the perfect dick inside him. He’s already on edge, and with Peter rocking against his prostate he can feel himself leaking. He gets a hand under himself, on his dick, and the combined sensations have him dangerously close to coming. “Peter, I’m gonna—”

“Good boy, come for me,” Peter pants, and Stiles does. His balls draw up tight and he grunts as he climaxes. He can feel his ass tightening, and then Peter’s slamming into him and cursing as he shudders and comes as well. Stiles’s limbs are made of jelly, and he slumps onto the bed, incapable of holding himself up. Peter follows, cock still nestled in his ass, and nuzzles at the back of his neck, kissing and nibbling as one hand cards through Stiles’s hair. They stay like that while Stiles catches his breath, and he should probably move—laying in his cooling come isn’t the best feeling—but there’s the comforting weight of Peter against his back. He decides that staying put wins for now.

It’s Peter who finally moves, pulling out and disposing of the condom, rolling over to one side, and shit, this is awkward. Stiles doesn’t know what happens now. Does he offer to leave? Can he take a shower? He really wants a nap, but would that be rude?  Peter must sense his uncertainty, because he slings an arm around Stiles’s waist, mumbling, “Stop thinking so hard, and let me enjoy my afterglow,” before burying his nose in the nape of Stiles’s neck. He goes quiet, and within minutes he appears to be asleep.

Stiles shrugs internally and goes with it. If Peter says they’re cuddling and napping, then they’re cuddling and napping. It’s not like Stiles can move anyway—the man’s got a vice-like grip and he’s stupidly strong. Stiles relaxes, closes his eyes, and drifts.

* * *

 

 

Next thing he knows, there’s a hand gently shaking him awake, and a voice in his ear. “Stiles?”

“Nnngh,” he mutters into the pillow.

The voice sounds amused. “Well I was going to ask if you’d prefer to stay the night or leave, but I guess that answers my question. Snuggle up, pup.”

And that, right there, that single word, brings all the pieces together, and Stiles sits bolt upright in bed. “Holy shit, you’re a werewolf!”

Peter’s whole body stiffens next to him. “What?”

“A werewolf.” Stiles wonders why it took him this long to see it. “You’re super strong, you keep sniffing my neck, you said you want to bite me, and I’m pretty sure you growled at me one time. And you just called me pup. You’re a Were.”

Peter’s dangerously quiet, but  Stiles doesn’t notice, too busy congratulating himself. It’s only when Peter turns red eyes on him and snarls _“How do you know about us?”_ that it occurs to Stiles that he’s alone, without transport, with what looks like a pissed off Alpha wolf, and that maybe, just maybe, he could have approached this better.

He extends his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “Woah, turn off the high beams, Alpha. I had a roommate in college who was a born wolf. Nice enough guy, once you got past his murder face. Anyway, I found out after someone tried to poison him and I had to shove wolfsbane into a bullet wound. I’m cool with it, honestly,” he babbles. “I mean, Derek and I roomed for three years and it wasn’t an issue.”

 “Derek,” Peter repeats slowly.

“Yeah. The roomie. Studying something with plants, I wanna say herbology but that’s Harry Potter, but anyway, dude was all about plants. A real softy once you got to know him. He used to call me an idiot pup.” Stiles pauses for breath. “Anyway. I won’t tell, if that’s what you’re worried about, so, if you could please not maul me, that’d be great.” He indicates to where Peter’s claws are out, and shuffles backwards on the bed, putting some distance between them.

To his surprise and relief, Peter’s eyes lose their glow and the claws retract. Peter even gives him a small smile. “You’re the IT kid.”

Stiles frowns at that. He’s never mentioned his job. Seeing his confusion, Peter elaborates. “Derek, the plant guy, is my nephew. He told us he had an IT kid for a roommate who talked a mile a minute, but he also said you know how to keep a secret.”

Stiles nods. “Well, yeah. Dude got shot, so I figured there are people out there who aren’t fans. I’m not gonna lie, it freaked me out at first, but Der was pretty good about answering my questions and I’m a giant research nerd, so it was cool once I knew he wasn’t gonna, y’know, chow down on me in my sleep.”

Peter lets out a deep breath. “No. Despite what the films say, we’re not slavering beasts.” Stiles doesn’t imagine the relief he sees on Peter’s face.

“Nah. Derek wouldn’t even kill a spider if he didn’t have to. Said it wasn’t their fault people got freaked out and they couldn’t help what they are.”

Peter smiles a little wider at that. “Sounds like my nephew. He’s a giant marshmallow, although he’d deny it.”

As he moves around, Stiles becomes aware of the drying come on his stomach and wrinkles his nose. “So, any chance of a shower before you take me home? This is kinda gross.”

“Of course.” Peter gives him a smirk. “Shall I join you?”

Stiles considers it. Peter does look very appealing, sitting there naked. “Will I actually get clean, or is this an excuse for you to get your soapy hands on my naked body?”

“Absolutely an excuse. What do you say, pet? Let Sir clean you up before sending you home?” Peter’s tone is soft, but very persuasive, and Stiles perks up at the word _pet._

“Yessir,” he breathes out.

Now that he’s not trying to hide his wolf strength, Peter hoists Stiles off the bed and slings him over one shoulder, carrying him into the bathroom easily. Stiles thinks he should probably feel objectified, but instead it’s stupidly hot, like pretty much everything about this whole night. The shower’s one of those double-headed jobs, plenty of room for both of them, and the hot water’s heavenly as it sluices down Stiles’s body. Peter pins him to the wall like he did in the elevator, only this time Stiles is naked and Peter doesn’t hesitate to leave a trail of lovebites down his chest and neck before soaping him up. He pulls Stiles forwards into the spray and Stiles leans against him, almost sprawling, he’s so relaxed. Once Peter’s rinsed him off, he turns Stiles round and presses him against the tiles. “Going to be a good pet and let me fuck you like this?” Peter asks, and that word, _pet_ , might be the death of him.

He nods dumbly, and Peter gives a satisfied hum as he rolls on a condom and slides into Stiles’s already loose ass. Stiles takes a second to wonder where the hell Peter was hiding the condom before he’s lost in the sensation of being thoroughly fucked. It’s quick and messy this time, Peter reaching round to jerk Stiles off as he fucks in hard and fast, both of them moaning out their pleasure, the sounds bouncing off the tiles and echoing around the room. It’s barely a handful of thrusts before Peter’s tensing and shuddering, and Stiles follows him when Peter bites down gently on the curve of his neck, the blunt human teeth adding the perfect amount of sting.

Stiles is breathing heavily as he watches his come swirl down the drain, limp and exhausted. It takes a moment to find his voice. “So, maybe I’ll stay after all, if that’s all right?”

“Mmmm. Perfectly all right. And if, during the night, the mood strikes…” Peter leaves the question dangling.

Stiles turns to face Peter. draping arms around his neck. “I’d definitely be okay with that.” He hesitates, then adds, “Sir.”

Peter’s answering smile is full of predatory promise.

* * *

 

 

The following morning, Peter drives Stiles home in his SUV. The mood 'struck' several times during the night, and when he sees the way Stiles is walking, Peter looks smug as he pronounces that there’s no way Stiles’s ass is getting on a bike. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and offers to get a cab, but Peter breezily assures him they can take his truck.

He drops Stiles off at the same corner he picked him up from, there are the awkward goodbyes that accompany a hookup, and Stiles sighs happily as he watches Peter drive off.  He’d say his experiment with Grindr was a success.

He shuffles up to his apartment and sleeps for six hours.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Stiles spends his Sunday doing his laundry, cleaning his apartment (because his roomie is a douche who never cleans anything) and thinking about Peter. It’s hard not to, when his ass still aches dully if he moves wrong (or right, depending on how you look at it.) He replays their night together in his mind, and it worries him just how much he’d enjoyed himself. His initial instinct is to message Peter and ask if he’s interested in a repeat performance, which is exactly why he doesn’t do it.

Because Stiles knows himself, okay? He knows that he has a tendency to fall too hard, too fast, for people who don’t feel the same about him. That’s part of why he decided hookups were the way to go. Everyone’s on the same page, everyone has a good time, no mess, no fuss. Perfect for someone like him.

He spends half an hour on Sunday morning looking through the messages he ignored from the night before, and it’s… not a good time. Some people have taken offence at his lack of reply and sent threats and insults. Others sent increasingly detailed messages of exactly what they’d do to him. And worst of all, even including the guys who were perfectly polite, there’s not a single one of them who grabs his interest.

Maybe Peter was a fluke. A gorgeous, mouthwatering fluke. Stiles pulls up his profile again, looking at Peter’s photo, and then closes it with a sigh. Peter never asked for his number, never suggested they ‘ _do this again sometime,’_ so he’s probably not interested. Not that Stiles wants to go there again anyway, that would be foolish. Well okay, Stiles totally wants to go there again, but Stiles knows he’s weak.

The work week drags by slowly, and Stiles is walking back to his apartment on Thursday afternoon when he sees something familiar in the corner-hotel’s parking lot. It’s Peter’s bike, with Peter leaning against it, arms folded over his chest as he shoots Stiles an unimpressed look. “Peter?” Stiles walks over and stops in front of him.

“Oh look, you’re alive,” Peter snipes. “Good to know. I’ll be on my way.”

Stiles frowns. “What’s up your ass?”

Peter arches his brow. It’s intimidating and arousing all at once. “As if you don’t know.” Stiles shakes his head slowly, and Peter sighs. “You ignored my messages. I was worried.”

“What messages?”

“I messaged you Sunday afternoon. We played hard, and I wanted to check in with you, since I know you’re new to this. You didn’t reply.”

Stiles huffs, pulls out his phone, and opens the app. He hadn’t opened it after Sunday morning, and it didn’t occur to him that Peter has no other way of getting in touch. There, among a couple of dozen other responses, is a message from **Alwaysthealpha36**

**Just making sure my sweet boy’s doing all right after last night.**

And another, from Monday.

**I was wondering if you wanted to play again sometime soon**

And Tuesday.

**Is this a no?**

Wednesday

**It’s fine if you don’t want to see me again, but at least let me know. It’s rude to ghost.**

Thursday

**Please let me know you’re all right. I’m starting to get concerned.**

Stiles scrolls through them, and understands why Peter’s irritated. He looks up to find Peter watching him intently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even open it. I had no idea.” He steps a little closer, and Peter’s face relaxes.

“I assumed that after a successful first foray you’d be playing the field. I thought perhaps you’d gone off with someone else and gotten yourself in trouble,” he says quietly. “I see I was wrong.”

Stiles gives Peter a wry grin. “It took me three days to walk straight. I was in no state to play any field,” Peter looks smug at that, and Stiles can’t blame him. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, honestly. You never said.”

Peter takes the phone from his hand and scowls at his list of messages. Stiles could swear Peter looks jealous. Maybe it’s a wolf thing. Then Peter’s tapping at his screen before handing his phone back, and Peter’s phone makes a noise in his pocket. “There. Now I have your number, and I can keep an eye on you.”

Stiles only bristles a little at that. “I’m not helpless, you know.”

Peter looks at him with big, soulful eyes, concern etched onto his features, and Stiles melts a little. “I know you’re not, sweetheart. But my wolf has decided it wants to keep you safe. If I let it have its way, I’d have been parked here Monday morning.”

Stiles snorts. “Really?”

Peter places a warm hand on the back of Stiles’s neck, and he feels arousal sweep through him. “The wolf likes you, Stiles. I like you.” He tightens his grip just a little. “You were such a good boy for me. I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you’d be interested in coming out for the evening.”

Stiles relaxes into the touch. “Depends, what are we doing?”

Peter pulls him closer, and Stiles lets himself be led. “I thought I’d feed you, and then I’d take you home and wreck you.”

Stiles thinks of his plans for the evening, of the frozen lasagna in his freezer, and his dickbag of a roommate, who’ll annoy him talking about whichever girl he’s hitting on currently. He looks at Peter through lowered lashes and smiles. “Yes please.” Peter raises a brow, and he adds, “Sir.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles notes that for someone who’s supposedly only checking in, Peter’s pretty confident, because he just so happens to have a second helmet with him. Stiles climbs on the bike and holds on to Peter tightly, once again reveling in the thrill of the ride. He’s also less nervous, knowing Peter has super reflexes. (Stiles has seen those reflexes in action—the amount of times Derek had saved coffee mugs from smashing when Stiles flailed a little hard was almost embarrassing, honestly.)

After about ten minutes, time Stiles spends soaking up the feel of Peter’s body under his hands, Peter pulls to a stop, and Stiles stares and blinks for a minute.

It’s a biker bar.

 ** _JR’s_** blinks above the door in red letters, and there are a dozen bikes lined up outside. Stiles takes his helmet off and sucks in a breath. This is new territory for him, but he trusts Peter not to take him anywhere too sketchy. It belatedly occurs to him that maybe _Peter’s_ sketchy. Stiles doesn’t even know what he does for a living. “Not to be rude, but you’re not, like, a drug lord or something are you?”

Peter grins and takes the helmet from him, stowing it away. “I’m a mechanic. I own a garage that specializes in bike repairs. If I was a drug lord we’d be going to a much nicer bar. These guys have good pizza, though.” With that, he takes Stiles by the hand and leads him inside, leaving Stiles hoping like hell this is a gay-friendly bar, or else he can see all that orthodontic work he had done as a kid going to waste.

Really though, he supposes he should know better than to think this isn’t a safe space, even after knowing Peter such a short time. As he walks in, Stiles notices that Peter gets a deferential nod and wave from most of the men and women there, including the hottest barman Stiles has ever seen. He’s a few years older than Peter, but he has gorgeous blue eyes that could pierce your soul, a long, lithe frame, and legs that seem like they’d wrap around you just right. “Hot damn, would you look at that,” he mutters.

Peter follows his gaze and his lips thin. “Eyes on me, sweet boy. I didn’t bring you here so you could drool over the barman.” Stiles flushes, because yeah, eyeing the guy _is_ kinda rude. Peter leans in closer. “When you’re with me, you’re with _me_ , understood?”

Stiles shivers at the Peter’s possessive tone. “Understood, Sir _,_ ” he says quietly, and Peter’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. His nostrils flare, and he pulls Stiles close, arm wrapped around him from behind. Stiles can feel the press of Peter’s soft cock through his jeans, and he squirms back against it. Peter nuzzles at his neck, scent marking him before letting go, patting a bar stool. “Up,” he says, and his tone lets Stiles know that here and now, Peter’s word is law.

Peter waves Hot Barman over and introduces him as Chris. Stiles sits quietly as Chris looks him over before smiling. “Got a name, kid?”

“Stiles,” he answers, and part of him is relieved at being spoken to rather than overlooked as Peter’s arm candy. “I hear you have good pizza,” he says, just to have something to say.

Chris nods, still grinning. “Best in the Bay area.”

“Meatlovers, I think, and two beers,” Peter chimes in, and Chris gives him a nod and goes to get the drinks.

Someone else gives Peter a nod, and Stiles leans in close and says, “You sure you’re not a mob boss?”

Peter turns to him then, letting his fangs slip out. “I’m the Alpha,” he says simply, and Stiles gets it.

“Are they all wolves here?” Stiles suddenly feels very fragile.

Peter throws a reassuring arm around his shoulder. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

“Not all of us,” clarifies Chris, as he hands them their beers. “There’s me and a couple of others who don’t drop fang. But Peter’s right. He’s the boss wolf. Stick with him, you’ll be fine.” 

Stiles relaxes at that, and they talk, getting to know each other a little better while they wait for their food. Stiles moans obscenely at his first bite of pizza, and Peter leans in and runs a thumb over his bottom lip, catching the sauce there and sucking it off. Stiles feels his earlier arousal flaring back up, and from the wicked smirk on Peter’s face, he knows it.

Stiles ducks his head a little and concentrates on the food, but he can feel Peter’s eyes on him as he eats. He’s keenly aware of the way Peter’s tracking his movements, and when he dares to glance up, Peter’s pupils are dark and his mouth is slightly open.

 _He wants me as much as I want him,_ Stiles thinks, and it’s shocking, that someone as perfect as Peter could be interested in a skinny little human. But interested he is, if his expression’s anything to go by, and obviously Stiles isn’t the only one who can see it, because when Chris swings by and picks up their empties, he says, “Guessing you don’t want another?”

Peter turns to Stiles and tilts his head, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Stiles shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Excellent,” Peter purrs. “Shall we?” He throws a few bills on the bar, telling Chris to keep the change, and struts out the door, not looking back to check if Stiles is following. Stiles is right on his heels, thank you very much, because he’s gonna go tap the hot werewolf now.

They go back to Peter’s and spend the rest of the evening between the sheets. It’s different this time, with Peter not having to hold back his animal side. He pins Stiles down and scents him shamelessly, mouths at his skin, licking and sucking and marking him, and when Stiles calls him _Sir_ , he lets his eyes flare red in satisfaction. He also hauls Stiles up against the wall and fucks him standing, and Stiles thinks he might faint with pleasure from the sheer, unbridled physicality of it.

Afterwards, when they’re in bed, (Peter really _does_ love to bask in the afterglow), Stiles turns down the offer to stay the night, due to work in the morning.  “Next time then,” Peter says casually.

Stiles’s heart gives a little flip at the thought that Peter assumes there’s going to be a next time. “What if I don’t want to come back?” he teases, even though there’s nothing he’d like more.

Peter just lets out a rich laugh. “Sweetheart, you forget. I can hear when you’re lying.” He leans over and taps his finger, once-twice, on Stiles’s chest. “Do you know what I heard just then? Your heart beating slightly faster over the words _I don’t want_.”

Stiles wishes he had the strength to deny it, to turn Peter down before he’s in too deep.  But Peter gives him exactly what he needs, and he doesn’t know if he’ll find it with anyone else. In the end, he says, “Fine. Call me, and I might say yes. Unless I get a better offer.” Stiles can hear his own heart racing at _that_ dirty rotten lie, and he’s not even a wolf.

“Oh sweetheart, you won’t get better than me,” Peter purrs, scraping his stubble down Stiles’s neck in exactly the right spot to make him shudder.

Just to be contrary, Stiles scoffs. “Yeah? You seem pretty sure of yourself, big bad wolf.”

“I know that I’m what’s best for my sweet boy,” Peter says, a glint in his eye. “Now I just have to convince you.”

It’s then that Stiles belatedly realizes he’s just started a game of cat and mouse.

With a wolf.

 

* * *

 

 

On Saturday night, Stiles’s phone buzzes.

_Had a better offer yet?_

Stiles waits ten minutes before replying, He even opens the app and checks to be sure another criminally hot, leather-clad werewolf hasn’t somehow popped into existence, but it seems Peter’s one of a kind.

There’s a tiny, cautious, voice, one that belongs to a cop’s kid, that says _be careful._

Stiles has never been one to listen to that voice.

 

He leaves a scrawled post-it on the fridge telling Theo not to expect him home tonight, and waits for Peter to collect him.

Peter spends the evening fucking him slow and deep, and afterwards, too tired to lift his head after his multiple orgasms (something he didn’t even know he was capable of), Stiles stays the night.

It’s awesome.

When Peter drops him home Sunday morning—Stiles finally sharing his address—Peter pulls him in for a kiss. “Until next time?”

“I keep telling you, there’s no next time,” Stiles says, grinning. They both know he’s lying.

 

* * *

 

 

On Tuesday, the text reads, **Got an hour or two to spare. Interested?**

Stiles makes Peter wait a few minutes before sending _What did you have in mind?_

 

**I want you to get on your knees for me and show me what that pretty mouth can do.**

 

He sends back _Yes Sir._

When Peter arrives ten minutes later, he’s already waiting out front.  He spends the first part of the evening on his knees sucking cock, Peter’s hand tangled in his hair as he tells Stiles he’s his good, perfect boy, and Stiles has never been so eager to please in his life. Peter’s words send a thrill racing through him, and he’s hard and leaking when he finally stands.

 

Peter kisses him thoroughly before pulling something out of the bedside drawers. “Want to try something different?” he asks, holding up a length of deep red rope. Stiles runs a hand along it, and it’s silky soft. He can only imagine how good it would feel against his skin.

“What did you have in mind, Sir?”

“I want to tie your hands up, and then tease you till you beg, sweetheart.”  Stiles’s mind stutters for a moment at the thought of it. Peter can obviously smell the spike in his arousal, because he flashes a filthy smile. “You want that, baby?”

Stiles stares at the rope. “I want, Sir.” He bites his lip. “Do I need, like, a safeword?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you just say so and we’ll stop. But if it makes you feel better, choose one.”

Stiles suggests _wolfsbane._ Peter gives him a flat look and tells him to pick something less fatal, thank you. In the end, Stiles settles on the traffic light system. Not that he thinks he’ll need it - Peter’s never asked him to do anything he didn’t want to.

Peter strips him out of his jeans and ties his hands together loosely before securing them to the headboard, making sure Stiles is comfortable, and then proceeds to tease the hell out of him. It’s the sweetest kind of torture, Peter licking at his cock and gently massaging his balls, bringing him close to the edge and then easing back just as Stiles gets close. Stiles knows Peter’s probably using his wolf senses to judge exactly how far he can push, and he doesn’t care. Peter toys with his nipples ‘til he’s squirming for more, and  lays open mouthed kisses up the sensitive skin of his ribs, making him gasp. Stiles never wants it to end.

Peter’s eyes blaze as Stiles falls apart under him, and when Stiles is reduced to begging, _“Please, Alpha, please!”_   he growls in satisfaction. He takes the head of Stiles’s cock in his mouth and suckles gently while his hand works the shaft in long, sure strokes, and Stiles feels like he’s about to fly apart as his body strains for release. He bucks his hips up, desperate for that extra touch to get him there. Peter responds by taking him all the way into his mouth, sucking expertly, and Stiles comes in about ten seconds flat.

Peter nurses him through it, until Stiles manages to whine, “Stop,” and Peter pulls away immediately. Stiles’s whole body is buzzing, oversensitive, and he lets himself melt into the sheets. The tug of the rope around his wrists should be restrictive, but instead it’s comforting, somehow.

He lets out a deep groan, and Peter chuckles. “You like that, baby?”

“Fuck, yes.” Stiles blinks, dimly registering that Peter’s moved up the bed and is stroking his hair. Stiles grins dopily at him and lets his eyes drift closed, just for a second, as his body starts to come down from its high. “Cuddles?” he asks without thinking, and Peter hums in agreement. Stiles feels the ropes come loose and slide off his arms, and then Peter’s rolling him over onto his side and spooning him, murmuring praise against his neck and letting out a low, continuous growl that Stiles desperately tries not to think of as a purr.

He must doze, because the next thing he knows, it’s nearly midnight. He squirms in Peter’s arms, and the wolf grumbles, “Lie still.”

“I should go. I have work,” Stiles protests weakly.

“Stay. I’ll take you home early,” Peter slurs, tightening his hold and pulling Stiles close, into the warmth of his body.

Stiles can tell Peter’s still mostly asleep, and the thought of getting out of the nice, warm bed with his nice, warm wolf holds exactly zero appeal, so he goes with it. “Fine. But you’re buying me breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next three weeks, Peter keeps calling, and Stiles keeps answering. He can’t seem to find a single reason not to. His roomie disparagingly calls Stiles a fuckboy. Stiles ignores him—he doesn’t give a shit about the opinions of Theo fucking Raeken, who can’t keep a girlfriend for more than two weeks. This is working for him, and that’s all he cares about.

When they get together, Peter tells him what he wants him to do, and Stiles obeys eagerly. Stiles calls Peter his big bad wolf, and Peter rolls his eyes, but he smiles when he thinks Stiles isn’t watching. Peter calls Stiles his good boy, his _perfect_ boy, and Stiles melts at the praise.  He knows he’s falling for Peter, and falling hard. He tries to remember why he thought that would be a problem, exactly.

But then they play with the rope again, and it’s fine right up until it isn’t.

Turns out that Stiles has no problem having his hands tied, but when Peter secures his ankles? He freaks out. It’s too much, he can’t move, and he feels a wave of panic wash over him as he struggles fruitlessly.   _“Nonnononono!”_  leaves his mouth unbidden, and his heart tries to beat out of his chest while panic claws at his brain. Peter slices through the rope with a claw as Stiles fights to get air, only able to manage shallow, shaky breaths, leaving him jittery and frantic.

Peter instantly does all he can to ensure Stiles is okay. He settles Stiles’s head on his chest where Stiles can hear his heart beating, and holds him close while he makes soothing noises and runs a comforting hand down Stiles’s back.

Stiles can hear Peter’s voice, steady and calming, telling Stiles to breathe with him, slowly, in and out, in and out, and gradually, Stiles regains some control over himself, feels less like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin.

Once Stiles’s breathing has settled into a steady pattern, Peter asks, “Better, pup?”

Stiles nods against Peter’s chest, refusing to look him in the eye. He feels like an idiot. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“None of that. We tried something new and it didn’t work for you, that’s all.” Peter’s tugs Stiles’s head up with a hand under his chin and gives him a gentle kiss.

“But I spoiled your fun.”

“I’m not enjoying it if you’re not, sweetheart. I have no interest in causing you distress. That’s not my kink.” Peter kisses him again, slow and tender. “I prefer you quivering with pleasure, not fear.” He places a peck on Stiles’s forehead, and Stiles gives him back a weak smile.

Peter continues to make soothing noises while Stiles snuggles up in his arms, and they don’t end up having sex at all, not even a token handjob, instead watching a rerun of some old sitcom. When Peter drops Stiles home, he walks him to his door, and makes him promise to call if he needs anything.

Stiles reassures Peter that he’s fine, and he is, really. But a tiny voice at the back of his head taunts him, saying “That’s the end of that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter calls him the next morning, just to check in. He asks Stiles how he slept, if he wants Peter to come over, if he needs anything. Stiles assures him he’s okay, that Peter doesn’t need to come over. Once he’s convinced Stiles is really fine, Peter tells him he’ll talk to him later, but he also warns Stiles that he has a lot going on this week, so he doesn’t know when he’ll be free. Somehow it feels like an excuse—a dismissal. Stiles wonders if Peter’s letting him down gently.

He doesn’t hear from Peter for almost a week, and he mopes. He’s mad at himself for ruining a perfectly good arrangement by freaking out over a goddam rope around his ankle. Granted, it’s not unusual for him to go a couple days without hearing from his wolf, and Peter _said_ he was busy, but despite Peter’s assurances that everything is fine, Stiles still manages to convince himself he’s blown it. He pulls out his phone a dozen times to send a variation of “Are we okay?” but he chickens out every time, because as long as he doesn’t know the answer, things are okay, right?  

It’s Schrödinger's wolf, and he fucking hates it. _This_ is why getting attached was a bad idea.

He’s still sulking when Saturday morning rolls around and there’s a knock on the door. He opens it to find Peter there, wearing his customary smirk. Stiles can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when Peter says, “Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?” Peter steps forward and leans in to scent him, and Stiles tilts his head back reflexively. Once Peter’s finished nuzzling at his throat, (and god, how Stiles has missed that), he says, “Sorry I haven’t called, but I killed my phone and lost your number.”

Stiles, still distracted by Peter’s presence, says, “You could have just messaged on the app.”

Peter’s mouth tightens and his smile disappears for just a second, before it reappears, looking somehow forced. “I don’t have the app. I haven’t had a chance to pick up a replacement phone. I thought you’d like to come with me, seeing as you’re the IT guru.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, ridiculously pleased at being asked. “Let me get dressed,” because he’s still be in his Sad Pajamas, the ones that are worn to within an inch of their life and that he lives in whenever he’s feeling low. He leaves Peter sitting on the couch while he showers and dresses, and ten minutes later he’s ready to go.

Stiles has to admit, he holds on to Peter a little tighter than he normally would as they ride to the mall. Peter must notice, but he doesn’t call him on it. But he does throw his arm over Stiles’s shoulder after they dismount (Stiles may _never_ get over the sight of Peter swinging his leg over the bike like that, okay?) and give him a reassuring squeeze. 

He takes Stiles to breakfast first, insisting he needs to eat. Peter watches him closely for a minute before saying, “You’re not your normal mouthy self, sweetheart. Have you been pining for me?” Stiles knows it’s meant as a joke, but it’s closer to the truth than he’d like to admit.

He deflects. “It’s mainly the bike I missed.”  But then Stiles catches Peter’s wounded expression and blurts out the truth. He’s never been able to lie to Peter. “Okay, maybe I was worried you’d ditched me, after the whole, y’know, rope thing.”

Peter’s expression becomes even more hurt, if that’s possible. “You think I’d do that?”

Stiles shrugs. “Not really. Not logically. But my brain’s an asshole sometimes, and when I didn’t hear…”

Peter sighs. “We really must do something about your terrible self-esteem, sweetheart. Rest assured, I’m not going anywhere just because we hit a tiny hiccup. One thing I do know though, is that I obviously need to spend a lot more time reminding you how perfect you are.”

Stiles ducks his head and blushes, and when he looks up from under his lashes he sees that Peter’s back to wearing his default smug smile. “That’s what I like to see,” Peter croons. “My sweet boy, so good for me. Now eat your breakfast, baby.” Peter holds out a slice of toast, and Stiles leans in and takes a bite. Peter’s eyes track his movements, and he lets out a quiet, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

He praises Stiles every time he takes a bite. Stiles likes it more than he probably should, and as he soaks up the praise he starts to feel more like himself.

After breakfast, Peter leads them into the tech store, and they go over to the wall of phones. “What happened to your old phone anyway?” Stiles asks, curious. A tiny part of him hopes Peter dropped it in the toilet, just so he can mock him.

It turns out that it fell off his desk at the garage and the screen shattered, which is much less exciting. Stiles lectures Peter on getting a _decent damn cover,_ and then he cracks his knuckles, nodding to himself. “Let’s do this. What’s your preference? Apple or android? Do you have a plan? Are you paying excess data charges right now? How much memory do you want?”

It’s almost cute, the way Peter’s face screws up in confusion. “I don’t know? Can’t I just get the same as I had? It was only three years old.”

Stiles cringes at that and rolls his eyes. “Three years old in tech terms makes it a dinosaur. You’ll need to update.” At Peter’s pout, he snickers. “Oh man, you’re hopeless.” Peter raises a brow at that, but Stiles ignores it. For once, he’s the one in control.

They find a sales assistant, and Stiles babbles at him rapid fire. He gets them to pull up Peter’s plan and promptly insists there must be something better. Peter just watches, arms folded and an amused smile pulling at his lips, as Stiles screws the sales guy down on price and negotiates a much more reasonable deal.

Stiles huffs when Peter picks his replacement, muttering that Apple is just a status symbol and not nearly as good as the Galaxy, but Peter fixes him with a hard stare. _“They burst into flames, Stiles.”_

“That was _one_ time,” he argues, but Peter won’t budge. Twenty minutes later, Stiles hands Peter his shiny new iPhone, still muttering about him being a brand name snob, and Peter smiles his thanks.

“Want to come to my place and help set it up?” Peter asks. “We could play while we wait for the updates to install.” He leans over to whisper, “You could ride me till it’s done.”

Stiles is fully aware of how long it can take to get a new phone up and running.

Hours, probably.

He nods vigorously, and Peter slides a hand down his back and palms his ass when the sales rep isn’t looking.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s true to his word. He starts texting and calling Stiles almost every day telling him he’s perfect, how much Peter enjoys his company, what a pretty little pet he is.

Stiles’s phone is full of messages saying things like, **Can’t wait to see you again** and **You truly are wonderful.** A lot of them aren’t even sexual, although lots of them most definitely are.

Stiles drinks in the reassurance and the contact, and his brain starts to get the message that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t casual anymore. That impression starts to cement himself when Peter does things like insisting Stiles bring his old Jeep down to the garage for a service, after failing to cover his gasp of horror when he saw the thing.

He dismisses Stiles’s claim that it’s a classic, and spends a Saturday afternoon going through the motor with a fine tooth comb. Stiles, in turn, spends the afternoon watching Peter’s ass where he’s bent over as he works beneath the hood. It’s a great way to spend the day. Afterwards, when Peter emerges, grease stained and scruffy, Stiles lets out a breathless, _“Sir,”_ and Peter smirks and suggests he show Stiles his office.

Since they’re the only ones there, they don’t even bother to close the office door, and something about even the faintest possibility that someone could see them makes it even more thrilling when Peter bends Stiles over the desk, telling him to hold on tight as he pounds into him.

Afterwards, Peter takes Stiles out and buys him dinner, and it’s almost a date.

The following weekend, Peter turns up at Stiles door unannounced, holding a package. “Want to go for a decent ride?” he asks, waggling his bike keys. Stiles nods eagerly, and Peter hands over the box he’s carrying. “You’d better put that on then.”

Stiles opens it to find a leather jacket that matches Peter’s. When he lifts it up to look at it, he sees that it even has the patch on the back, a pair of stylized wings and the words _Hale’s Angels._ His mouth drops open. “Peter, it’s too much—”

“If you’re riding with the pack, you’d better look the part,” Peter interrupts smoothly.

“Wait, it’s a pack ride?” Stiles is thrilled when he hears that. Sure, they’ve been to the bar more than a few times now, and he’s on at least first name terms with the guys there, but this feels like a deliberate inclusion, like Peter’s trying to tell him something.

Peter nods. “We’re riding to the pitbull rescue, then running a dog wash.” Stiles still remembers how pleased he was when he discovered that Peter’s frankly intimidating looking pack actually spent most of their spare time doing charity work. Peter’s not nearly as much of a tough guy as he likes to make out.

Stiles shrugs the jacket on, and isn’t surprised when it fits him perfectly. He turns to Peter to see what he thinks, and finds himself with an armful of werewolf as Peter crowds him up against a wall and kisses him desperately before rubbing his stubble over Stiles’s jaw, scenting him. Stiles huffs out a tiny laugh at the urgency. “I take it you like it?”

Peter nods against the crook of his neck. “You look like you’re _mine_ ,” he growls, and fuck if that doesn’t do things to Stiles, because he wants it to be true. He takes a deep breath, screws up his courage and nudges at Peter where he’s still scenting him, to get his attention.

Peter,” he starts, hesitant, “We’re…are we a thing, now?” _Smooth_ , he berates himself. _What are you, twelve?_

Peter pulls back and looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Would you like that? To be mine?”

Stiles nearly chickens out, nearly says it doesn’t matter to him, but there’s something in the way Peter’s looking at him, almost expectantly. He bites his lip, nervous. “If you’ll have me?”

Peter’s face breaks into a grin, and it’s hungry, possessive. “I won’t lie, sweetheart. I’ve wanted you all to myself for a while now.”

Stiles beams back at him. “Really?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I thought I’d been clear in my intentions. I did say I’d convince you, remember?”

Stiles does remember. He just sort of forgot, but he should have known Peter wouldn’t back down from a challenge. His smiles gets impossibly wider. “You win. I’m yours.”

“Excellent,” Peter purrs. “And you’ll be my good boy, my obedient pet?”

Stiles has to stop and think about that, as much as something about the word gives him goosebumps. “I’m not sure about the pet thing. You don’t want to…” and it’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he has to ask. “You won’t put me in a cage and make me wear a tail, right?” he says in a rush.

Peter doesn’t laugh though, and Stiles is grateful. Instead, Peter drapes his arms around Stiles’s neck and presses their foreheads together. “No, sweetheart. I don’t want you as a literal pet. It’s a term of affection - of ownership, if you will. But also, there are two types of pet owners. Some people have guard dogs they keep chained up, treat badly, and never give a moment’s attention to. Other people have treasured companions that they absolutely adore and shower with affection. Would you like to guess which type I am?” 

He leans in and kisses Stiles slow and sweet, just in case there was any doubt. “It would be just like what we have now, except I’d take care of you, and you’d only be mine. You’ve always been such a good boy for me.”

Stiles breathes a little easier. “So, not fifty shades of wolf? You won’t suddenly put me in stocks and spank me?”

Peter snorts. “Well I might, but only if you ask nicely.”

 

* * *

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

None of the other bikers seem remotely surprised when Stiles turns up on the back of Peter’s bike wearing the patch. A few of them give him a nod, telling him it’s a good look on him. The pack members have never been bothered by his gender, and Stiles knows it’s because werewolves are a lot more fluid where sexuality is concerned—as Derek once commented drily, “It’s hard to get hung up on stuff like that when your whole body sprouts extra parts once a month.”

Chris sees him and grins. “Finally asked you, huh?”

“Actually, I kinda asked him,” Stiles admits, and Chris laughs.

“Good for you.”

Peter comes over just then and draws Stiles away, arm possessively wrapped around his middle. “Are you gonna get jealous every time I talk to someone else now?” Stiles asks, amused.

“No.” At Stiles’s skeptical look, Peter sighs and amends, “Maybe. Speaking of which,” he holds out his hand. “Phone, pet.” Stiles hesitates for a second before pulling it out of his pocket, but at Peter’s raised brow, he unlocks it and hands it over. Peter flicks through the screens, and a puzzled frown mars his features. “I was going to get you to delete your Grindr, but it’s not on here.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Well, duh. I never used it. I got rid of it a couple of weeks ago, after you pulled that hinky face when I mentioned it.”

Peter lets out a snort of amusement. “Same. I never bothered downloading it on my new phone. I only used it because one-night stands are safer, for a Were. Less chance of being discovered.” He pauses before adding, “Unless your hookup happens to be far too clever for his own good, and used to room with your nephew.”

Warmth blooms in Stiles’s chest at the news that Peter hasn’t been seeing anyone else. He kinda figured, but the confirmation is nice. “So, you mean you’ve been planning on making us a thing all that time?”

A deep chuckle interrupts them. “Planning? Oh my god, you’ve never heard a wolf whine into his beer so much. _What if Stiles only wants casual? He still has Grindr. What if he finds someone else? Is it too soon to ask him out?_ ” Chris mimics, while Peter glares daggers. Chris ignores him. “He’s got it bad kid, don’t doubt that.”

Stiles grins, and runs a hand through Peter’s hair, ruffling it. “Aw, is that right? Are you my sappywolf?”

Chris snickers good-naturedly, and Peter lets out a sigh. “I thought you were going to behave?”

“This is me behaving,” Stiles says with a grin.

“It really is, isn’t it?” Peter sighs again. He contemplates Stiles for a moment, then leans in, a wicked grin on his face as he murmurs, “Here’s the deal. If you can refrain from calling me ridiculous nicknames for the day, and obey me nicely, I’ll make it worth your while when we go home tonight.”

Stiles’s breath catches. Normally when Peter says that he’ll make it worth Stiles's while, he really, really, does. “Do I have to call you Sir?” he asks, just to be clear. He’s not sure if he’s ready for that, not in public.

Peter shakes his head and gives a tiny smile. “No, sweetheart. That one’s just for us.”

“Then I’ll be good,” Stiles breathes, hesitating for only a second before whispering, “Sir.”  

He’s rewarded with a low growl, and teeth tugging at his earlobe. “I look forwards to rewarding you tonight, sweet boy,“ Peter says before sucking a hickey into his neck, the scrape of teeth against flesh and the sudden suction making Stiles gasp. Then, just as he feels like his legs might give way under him, Peter steps away, apparently satisfied with his handiwork.

Peter straddles his bike easily, before reaching behind him and slapping the seat. “Up”, he commands, and Stiles’s legs turn to jelly, the order awakening visions of crawling on his knees up the length of Peter’s bed. One of the wolves nearby gives Stiles an amused glance, and Stiles realizes they can all smell his arousal.  Peter looks supremely pleased about the whole thing, smug asshole that he is.

Stiles gets on the bike, and tries to ignore the way his dick throbs at the contact with Peter’s body. Later, he tells himself. If he can behave, Peter will make it worth his while later.

 

* * *

 

 

After riding for two hours, all thoughts of sex have fled from Stiles’s mind. Once the initial rush of riding on the open highway had worn off, he’d found his legs getting stiff and his ass starting to go numb from the vibrations of the road under them. When they finally pull over, he sits there for a minute while Peter waits for him to dismount, trying to figure out if his legs will hold him. It’s Chris who notices his dilemma, coming over and helping him off, placing steadying hands at his waist as Stiles finds his balance. “Saddle sore?” he says with a knowing smile.

“Little bit, yeah,” Stiles says, rolling his hips in an effort to stretch. Just then large hands reach around and Peter pointedly removes Chris’s hands from Stiles’s waist with a frown. Chris lifts his hands and backs away, amusement written across his face.

“Calm down Peter, I was just making sure the kid didn’t fall on his ass.”

Peter steps up right behind Stiles, pulling him close. “And now you’ve made sure, and you can keep your hands off what’s mine.”

Stiles twists to look at Peter. “Wow, possessive much?” he teases, but he doesn’t really mind. He _is_ Peter’s, after all. The thought sends a thrill through him down to his bones. Peter doesn’t answer, just nuzzles at the back of his neck, and Chris walks off with a chuckle. It occurs to Stiles to wonder exactly why Peter finds Chris a threat, and a sudden suspicion forms. “Wait, you and Chris, did you—were you a thing?”

Peter stiffens, and Stiles knows he’s guessed right. “We may have warmed each other’s bed a time or two, when we were young,” Peter admits, voice muffled by where he’s buried it in the crook of Stiles’s neck, and oh, isn’t that interesting?

“And that makes you go all caveman because?” Stiles is grinning madly.

“Because given half a chance he’d love a sweet young thing like you under him. That’s why he and I could never take it further—we both like being in charge too much,” Peter says. And yeah, Stiles gets that. Chris looks like he’d be a hell of a Sir.

“Well rest assured wolfy, I’m only interested in you,” Stiles says quietly, turning so he’s facing Peter, draping his arms around his neck. “Chris is pretty, but I’m taken.”

“Yes, yes you are.” Stiles expects Peter to kiss him, but he just holds him for a moment, eyes tracking over every inch of Stiles’s face. “Mine,” Peter repeats with conviction. He lets Stiles go then, with a light slap to his still-numb ass, and goes to get the rest of the group organized for the dog wash.

Stiles isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but his day just keeps getting better when the animal shelter they’re at brings an assortment of dogs out into the carpark along with four mobile dog wash stations, and Peter and the rest of his pack spend the next two hours washing and grooming the animals while potential owners come and meet them.

Stiles can see the appeal - a group of muscled men lifting big dogs in and out of the wash bays, all of them either shirtless or in dripping wet t shirts? It’s a hell of a sight. Tattooed and tanned, Chris is very easy on the eye, but it’s the sight of Peter, shirtless and laughing as he plays with the dogs, that makes Stiles’s breath catch.

He doesn’t get to sit and stare too much though, because Peter’s set him up at a folding table, putting him in charge of collecting donations and handing out leaflets about the shelter. He offers to help with the dogs, but Peter arches a brow. “Nobody sees you shirtless but _me_ , sweetheart.” His possessiveness has definitely dialed up a notch. It’s pretty great.

During the course of the day, most of the other pack members wander over and pass comment on Peter and Stiles’s obvious pairing, mostly along the lines of _‘about damn time someone made a move’_. Stiles notes with amusement that it’s Peter they’re rolling their eyes at, though they’re careful not to let him see.

By the end of the afternoon, five of the dogs have new homes lined up, and some the stigma surrounding their breed has been broken down by the sight of them licking happily at Stiles’s face while he scritches their bellies. At one stage he tells a lady he’s talking to that he’s a sucker for a big hound, and it takes one of the werewolves snickering for him to grasp how that must have sounded. He can feel himself going pink, and when he glances up he sees Peter grinning at him, the asshole.

Once they’re done for the day, they head to a nearby diner for a late lunch, and then they ride back. Peter congratulates his pack on a job well done, and tells them drinks are on him tonight, instructing Chris to put it on his tab. He and Stiles don’t even get off their bike at the bar, instead continuing on to Peter’s place.

Stiles staggers around like a newborn foal when he dismounts, much to Peter’s amusement. “Let’s get you upstairs.” And then, without any warning, he scoops Stiles up bridal-style and carries him to the elevator.

“I can stand,” Stiles protests when Peter shows no sign of putting him down.

“Hush, pet. Let me have this,” Peter replies firmly. When Stiles opens his mouth to protest again, Peter shuts him up with a kiss that leaves him breathless, and he decides that yeah, here in Peter’s arms is the perfect place to be.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter runs him a bath and the pair of them soak, soothing away their aches and pains as Stiles relaxes against Peter’s chest. Once his nether regions feel less tender, Stiles’s earlier libido returns, and he wiggles his ass a little. “So, did I behave?” he asks teasingly.

Peter hums. “You know, I believe you did.” He runs a washcloth lazily across Stiles’s chest, making patterns with the foam lingering from the bubble bath he’d used. “And I said I’d make it worth your while, didn’t I?” His other hand dips below the waterline, cupping Stiles’s  balls and playing with them. “Would you like your reward now, pet?”

“Yes please,” Stiles says, voice hitching at the touch. The numbness is gone, but he’s still sensitive, and Peter’s casual touches set his nerve endings alight.

“Into the bedroom then, get dry and wait for me on the bed,” Peter instructs, and Stiles hurries to obey, slopping water over the side of the tub in his haste. Peter climbs out in a far more civilized manner, his movements graceful. Stiles takes a second to watch the way Peter’s muscles move, the way the light gleams on his wet skin, before getting on with the task of drying off. Peter said to go and wait, so he does. “How do you want me, Sir?” he calls as he walks towards the bed.

“However you’re comfortable, sweetheart,” Peter answers, so Stiles lies on his stomach, head cradled on his folded forearms, and waits. Peter’s bed is comfortable, the bedroom’s the perfect temperature, and he’s almost fallen into a doze when he’s startled by the sensation of something cool dripping onto his ass cheeks, followed by Peter’s strong hands massaging whatever it is into the skin. It feels sensational, cooling and soothing the ache from the long ride, and Stiles lets out an appreciative groan. “S’this the reward?” he slurs, because honestly? Sexytimes are all well and good, but right now, if all they did was this, he wouldn’t mind at all.

Peter laughs softly. “No sweetheart, this is me taking care of you. That beautiful ass of yours is probably still tender, and it’s in my best interests to keep it in good shape.” His hands continue to roam over Stiles’s flesh, broad, warm palms cupping said beautiful ass. Peter’s  hands disappear for a second, before returning with more of the gel -  aloe, Stiles guesses from the scent of it. Peter runs his hands up Stiles’s back, feeling his muscles, looking for tight spots and working strong thumbs into any knots he finds. Stiles yelps when Peter hits a tender point, but Peter’s already moved on, smoothing his hands over the area and muttering apologies, telling Stiles what a good pet he’s being. Stiles thinks to himself that if being a good pet means lying here getting a massage, he’s definitely on board.

He’s almost asleep again when the touches stop, and he maybe whines a little bit. Peter rolls him over onto his back, propping himself up on an elbow next to him. “Better, sweetheart? I know a long ride can be taxing, the first time.”

Stiles nods, and stretches, catlike. He does feel better—he hadn’t noticed how much his muscles had locked up. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, the title falling from his lips without a second thought, and Peter looks _so damned pleased_ with him right then.

“Would you like your reward, or do you need to rest first?” Peter asks.

Stiles thinks about it. “What’s the reward?”

“My tongue, your ass.”

Stiles promptly flops over onto his front and spreads his legs wide. “Gonna fuck me afterwards, Sir?”

“Such a greedy pet,” Peter tuts, but Stiles can hear him smiling. “And yes, if you ask nicely.”

Peter spends the next hour taking Stiles apart, first with his skilled tongue, and then his fingers, and by the end of it Stiles has bypassed asking nicely and gone straight to pleading for Peter to fuck him. He’s come twice, doesn’t think he could move if you paid him, and still, Peter’s fingers twist and grind and stretch him open, leaving him breathless and desperate.

He couldn’t even tell you how many fingers Peter has in him, lost in the overwhelming fullness. It might be two, might be his whole hand—all Stiles knows is that it’s not enough, isn’t Peter’s cock. “Want you inside please, Sir,” he begs, high and breathless. Peter’s hand disappears, and he moves to blanket Stiles, his body warm and solid along his back as Peter eases his cock in, deep and slow.

Stiles lets out a whine, relieved as Peter fills him just right, hips rocking gently in and out. Stiles takes it, gets lost in the movement, the satisfying fullness, the sensation of being held down and fucked.

It might last minutes, or it might be hours. Stiles can’t tell. All he knows is that Peter’s hitting all his sweet spots, and he can feel himself getting hard again, the sheets providing delicious friction on his cock. He can feel his climax building, but it’s slow and lazy. Peter grinds his hips, thrusts a little deeper, and whispers filth in his ear, and Stiles soaks it all up, until his need becomes urgent. He starts to rut against the sheets, but then there’s a strong arm around his waist, hauling him backwards so he’s balanced in Peter’s lap, head lolling against his shoulder. Peter gets a hand on his dick and strokes him just right, and Stiles comes one last time, too worn out and awash with pleasure to do more than mewl weakly as his cock pulses and dribbles, spent.

Peter eases him back down onto the bed, and thrusts in once, twice, before coming with a grunt and a sigh. Stiles barely notices, still riding his own wave of euphoria and exhaustion. He hums as Peter places soft kisses at the base of his neck, completely spent. As he gives up the fight to stay awake, Stiles’s last thought is that right now, he’s the living, breathing definition of well fucked.

It’s pretty great.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles stirs, there’s daylight peeking round the edges of the curtains. He has to piss, so he drags Peter’s arm away from his waist and heads to the bathroom. He notes dimly that at some stage Peter’s cleaned him up, and the thought of Peter taking care of him while he slept makes him smile.  When he goes back to bed, Peter opens one eye, peers at him, and pulls him close again without a word. Stiles lets himself be positioned to Peter’s satisfaction and goes back to sleep.

He’s woken next by Peter running a finger around the shell of his ear. It tickles, and he squirms. “There’s my boy,” Peter croons, rolling Stiles to face him. Stiles can’t resist reaching up and running a hand over Peter’s jaw. He can still feel the place between his legs where Peter had licked at him last night, stubble leaving the flesh red and raised and deliciously sensitive. Stiles shivers at the thought of trying to get his jeans on, of how it’ll smart and throb.

Peter catches the movement, and raises an eyebrow. “Just thinking about last night,” Stiles offers—it’s close enough, and he doesn’t have the energy to explain.

Since they’re both awake, they make out lazily for a while, but it doesn’t go any further, not this time. Eventually, they roll out of bed, and Peter makes coffee while Stiles gets dressed. As predicted, the beard burn has a bite to it, and he walks gingerly to the kitchen. When he gets there, Peter hands him a cup of coffee and a flat leather box.

“I’d like you to wear this,” Peter says, tapping the lid of the box. “So everyone will know you’re mine.” Stiles takes it with only the tiniest bit of trepidation, hoping it’s not a dog collar.

He opens the box.

It’s not a collar.

It’s a bronze pendant on a braided leather cord. Stiles squints at the emblem as he searches his memory, trying to think where he’s seen it before. It’s definitely familiar, and for some reason it makes him think of college, flashes of tanned skin and muscle. He has a sudden memory of Derek saying ' _Eyes up here, Stiles,_ '  that time he caught Stiles staring at him changing his shirt.

“Derek has this tattooed on his back.”

Peter nods. “Yes. It’s the family crest.”

Stiles looks again at the triple spiral, the black cord, and thinks about the fact that if Peter already had this, then what Chris said was true, and Peter’s been waiting to ask him. It only seems right to hand the box back to Peter and ask, “Put it on me, Sir?”

Peter beams as he does up the clasp, the pendant settling in the dip of Stiles’s throat. “It looks good on you, sweetheart.” He sounds immensely satisfied.

Stiles beams and takes a mouthful of coffee, distinctly aware of Peter’s eyes on his throat as he swallows, and he tips his head back just a little for better effect, because he knows what wolves like. He’s rewarded with a tiny growl.

“Are you teasing me, sweetheart?” Peter asks, his face suddenly mere inches away, his pupils dark with desire.

Stiles takes another sip, swallowing deliberately. “Who, me?”

Peter’s hand brushes his throat, fingers trailing down the side. “Keep that up, and I’ll be forced to drag you back to bed.”

Stiles looks Peter in the eye, then tilts his head as far back as he can, running his own fingers over the pale flesh and letting them come to rest atop Peter’s. “Whatever you say, Sir,” he breathes.

 

* * *

 

 

Much later, still tangled together, Peter runs a thumb over the pendant. “This was supposed to be significant,” he grumbles. “I feel like you missed its meaning.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I really didn’t. It’s your claim on me. Like…not a collar exactly, but something I can wear every day, to remind me who I belong to. And I love it.” He turns and graces Peter with a soft kiss. “Thank you.”

Peter looks pleased, and Stiles mentally pats himself on the back. “I should warn you, sweetheart. I plan to spoil you. I hope you like gifts.” Peter smirks.

Stiles snuggles up. “I love gifts. As long as they’re not over the top. Trinkets, little things, though? Absolutely.”

“Little things,” Peter parrots. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

 

* * *

 

When Stiles finally drags his ass home, his good mood is sharply derailed. He fights down the irritation when he sees that his roommate has, once again, left a sink full of dishes and an empty fridge. The bastard even found Stiles’s stash of peanut butter cups. The arrangement’s supposed to be that they both throw in for groceries, and the person who uses the last of something like toilet roll or milk picks some more up as a courtesy. In practice though, Stiles doesn’t think Theo’s bought so much as a tube of toothpaste in the six months he’s been living here, while he continues to eat anything that’s not nailed down. His excuse lately is “You’re off getting banged by your leather daddy, I didn’t think you wanted it,” which is fucking bullshit.

The saving grace to the whole situation is that Theo works weird hours, so they only rarely see each other, mainly communicating through post-its. Stiles is irritated enough that he writes a note in block letters -  BUY FUCKING GROCERIES THEO, IT’S YOUR TURN-  even though he knows Theo will ignore it, just like he does every other time.

Stiles does his laundry, taking petty satisfaction in tossing all Theo’s stuff out of the basket and only washing his own—it’s another area where the guy oversteps, and Stiles is pretty much done with it. He does the dishes reluctantly, muttering under his breath, before heading off for a nap, because he’s bone weary.

After all, he barely slept last night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

They fall into a relationship, and it’s as easy as breathing. Sometimes they do mundane things like go see a movie, or get burgers. Sometimes they meet up because Stiles has an itch to scratch and Peter knows what he likes.

If Stiles has had a shitty day, he’ll head over to Peter’s and whine about how his life sucks, and Peter will coddle him, stroking his hair and calling him _‘poor pet’_ , while handfeeding him chocolates and fresh berries and whatever other treats he has on hand. (Peter always has plenty on hand, Stiles has discovered.) Peter will insist he stay the night, and sometimes there isn’t even sex involved, just lots of snuggling, and maybe a little necking.

Stiles loves those nights.

Then there are the other nights, the ones he loves for different reasons.

When it’s a full moon, Stiles will get a text telling him to meet Peter at the bar. As soon as he walks in the door, Peter will appear at his side, hook a finger under his choker, and drag him in for a bruising kiss. After, Peter will settle himself on a barstool, legs spread wide, looking for all the world like a Lord surveying his kingdom. He’ll pat his thigh, and say, _“Here, pet,”_ in a tone that lets Stiles know it’s not a request.

Stiles will sit balanced on one of Peter’s thighs, chest-to-back, and lean so he’s plastered against Peter, on full display. Peter will tilt Stiles’s head back and nuzzle at his throat, snarling at anyone who comes too close, all while holding Stiles firmly in place with a strong arm locked around his waist.

They never stay long, two drinks at most—just long enough for Peter to make his presence known, remind everyone who the Alpha is. Perched on Peter’s knee like that, Stiles sometimes feels a little like a trophy wife, but he can’t deny that seeing Peter like this, protectiveness dialed up to ten thousand, turns him on like nothing else. When they leave the bar, Peter will take Stiles home and use him hard, and Stiles loves to obey his Sir when he’s like this, demanding and unrestrained.

On their third full moon, Peter fucks him while beta shifted, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating experience of Stiles’s life. He stares into red eyes, spellbound, as clawed hands wrap around his hips and pin him in place and Peter pounds him relentlessly. Stiles comes so hard he almost blacks out, and once he can move again, he breathlessly asks, “Again, Sir?”

He fucking loves dating a werewolf.

Stiles is the first to admit he’d be hard-pressed to put a name to what they have if anyone asked, and there’s no denying it’s unconventional, but he doesn’t worry about it too much - it works for them, and that’s the main thing.

He also discovers that when Peter said he intended to spoil Stiles, he wasn’t exaggerating.

Stiles gets his groceries delivered now, after he griped once too often about there not being anything in the cupboards. He’d tried to protest, but Peter had fixed him with that look, the one that meant _Behave, Pet_ , and then promptly distracted him with mind-blowing sex. After that, there didn’t seem to be any point arguing, and it is kinda nice to have decent food around the place.

A cleaning woman appeared out of nowhere, and when Stiles grumbled about _that,_ Peter rolled his eyes and told him that it was purely selfish on Peter’s part. Now Stiles won’t have to spend his weekends cleaning, which means he’ll be free to spend his time with Peter. Really, Stiles can’t fault the logic.

He has a shiny new coffee machine, because Peter claimed he was sick of Stiles’s breath smelling of substandard ‘instant filth’. He’d insisted that werewolves have sensitive palates, and it was a necessity for both of their sakes. Stiles wisely didn’t mention that Peter’s palate isn’t nearly so sensitive when his tongue is buried in Stiles’s ass. So now Stiles gets to have good coffee every morning, and he deliberately hasn’t shown Theo how to work the machine. He also keeps the beans hidden in a box under his bed.

Some of the gifts are just plain practical, and Stiles appreciates those. The new helmet in his size, and the riding gloves were necessities. The new tires on the Jeep were _definitely_ needed.

But their definitions of ‘trinket’ is vastly different, Stiles has discovered. He looks at the latest offering that Peter’s slipped onto his hand, and is caught between exasperation and amusement.

The diamond pinky ring that Peter just gave him is technically small, he’ll admit that, but it’s in no way a _trinket_. It’s gorgeous, no question. But unlike everything else, it has no practical application. It’s just because, Peter tells him.

Stiles holds his hand up, watching the light hit the stones. Peter looks on expectantly, waiting for a response, and when Stiles catches his expression, hopeful and slightly hesitant, he caves. “Thank you, Peter. It’s gorgeous.”

Peter’s face lights up and he lifts Stiles’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “It reminded me of you. A pretty toy for a pretty boy.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? You can’t keep buying me things.”

“Can too,” Peter counters. “You said you loved gifts.”

 “Are you really going to just keep buying me stuff? Because you don’t need to. Theo keeps calling you my sugar daddy.” Stiles wrinkles his nose at the memory.

“Theo sounds like an ass and I don’t know why you don’t throw him out.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I told you. His name’s on the lease.”

Peter sighs. “I do recall that. Regardless, you should ignore everything he says. Behave, and let me pamper you.”

Stiles knows a losing battle when he sees one. “Fiiine,” he huffs. “Even if it _is_ too much.”

“Good boy.” Peter grins in triumph at getting his own way, and sends Stiles to the bar to get their drinks, swatting his ass as he goes.

As Chris is pouring, he leans in and beckons for Stiles to do the same. When they’re almost cheek-to-cheek, he murmurs, “Hey, kid? Word to the wise—if the pack Alpha wants to give you gifts, then you  take them, you say thank you, and you don’t argue.” Stiles tilts his head and quirks a brow in silent query, and Chris continues, “Peter won’t stop anytime soon, so you may as well get used to it.”

“Really?” Stiles mutters out of the side of his mouth. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need all this stuff.”

“No, but it’s how he shows he cares. It’s a werewolf thing, the need to provide, and it’s stronger in the Alpha. So don’t argue, and for the love of god, don’t turn down whatever he gives you. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

That brings Stiles up short—he hadn’t thought of it that way. He’d thought Peter was just being Peter, showboating for the sake of it. But now he thinks about it, it makes sense. The Alpha takes care of their pack, he knows. He nods his understanding to Chris and gives a quiet, “Thanks.”

Another thought strikes him as he carries their drinks back to the table, He sets them down before asking, “Peter, am I pack now?”

Peter’s eyes dance with amusement as he says, “Of course you are, sweetheart. Did you not know?”

And Stiles supposes he did know, on some level. He just hadn’t thought about it. He lets the knowledge wash over him. It leaves him feeling deeply contented, and he leans over to kiss Peter on the cheek. “Thanks.”

“For what, sweetheart?”

“Everything, I guess?” Stiles can’t help the dopey smile from spreading across his face.

“You’re very welcome, sweet boy. Now tell me what you and Christopher were chatting about up there. You looked far too cozy.”

Without missing a beat, Stiles replies, “He was telling me he has a much bigger dick than you.”

Peter looks outraged for all of half a second before Stiles starts laughing at him, and then he mutters under his breath about “disrespectful pups who need to be taught a lesson.”

Stiles has time to regret his cheek later, when Peter takes revenge by edging him until he cries.

It’s awesome.

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t escaped Stiles’s notice that Theo was acting even shiftier than usual, or that he seemed to have stopped going to work, but when Stiles asked about it, Theo had shrugged and told him he was doing something else now. Stiles hadn’t bothered to probe further.

Now, staring at the empty apartment, he thinks maybe he should have.

When he came home and found the door hanging open, his initial assumption was that they’d been robbed. But then he’d stepped inside and found the apartment stripped bare, right down to the lightbulbs. As he stood there in shock, he noticed a letter on the kitchen counter. Stiles picked it up, and as he read it, his heart sank down into his boots. _“Non-payment of rent”_ and _“Eviction Notice”_ leapt off the page at him, along with a frankly terrifying sum owing. The eviction date is in two days’ time. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Theo had waited till the last possible second before bolting, taking everything with him. Stiles would like to bet that Theo hasn’t paid the rent in a long, long time, obviously pocketing the cash Stiles has been handing him each week for his share.

Stiles, when he moved in, had offered to pay the landlord directly, but Theo had said it was easier this way, and since Theo’s was the name on the lease, and he was desperate for somewhere to live after the apartment he had lined up had fallen through, Stiles had done as he’d asked.

 _Rookie mistake,_ he thinks bitterly, as he wraps his head around the fact that he’s been left homeless. _Fucking Theo._

An awful thought strikes him, and he races to his bedroom, where his worst suspicions are confirmed. His bedroom’s empty – clothes, furniture, the lot. All Theo’s left him is a few stray bills and bits of paperwork, scattered on the floor. As Stiles surveys the bare room, it doesn’t take long for his shock to turn into unadulterated rage. He clenches his fists and screams “ _FUUUUUCK!!!”_ at the top of his lungs.

It doesn’t help.

Stiles is so mad he’s shaking. He turns on his heel, still clutching the letter, and does the only thing he can think of: he heads to Peter’s. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, and he can feel angry tears well up. He doesn’t try to stop them, just scrubs the heel of his hand across his eyes so he can see to drive. His gut ties itself in knots as his thoughts chase each other, all screaming one thing—what the _fuck_ is he going to do now?

When he gets to Peter’s, he takes a second to breathe deeply, trying to get himself under control. It doesn’t work. He’s full of adrenaline and fury, and he storms up the stairs and hammers on Peter’s door. He launches into a tirade as soon as Peter opens it, not even waiting until he’s inside. “Fucking Theo bolted, and the fucker hasn’t paid the rent and now we’ve been evicted, and he took everything, Peter, he stole my fucking _clothes!”_  

Saying it out loud makes it worse somehow, and a sob catches in his throat. Peter’s arms come around him instantly, holding him tight, and Peter makes soft shushing noises. The warm hand on the back of his neck helps, at least a little. Stiles gets out, “I knew he was shady, but I didn’t think—” before he breaks down and cries like a fucking baby.

Peter steers them to the couch, holding him close, and lets him get it out of his system. When Stiles’s tears finally slow, sobs turning into hitched breaths, Peter says, “Tell me everything.” He’s quiet, and sounds calm—almost too calm. There’s something hard and unforgiving in his expression, and Stiles hands him the letter and starts to explain.

“I only moved in with him because the other place I had lined up fell through literally the day I arrived, and I found Theo on craigslist. He seemed okay at first. I paid my half of the rent straight to him. But the asshole hasn’t been paying, and when I went home today, the place was stripped bare and he’s gone. We’ve been evicted. So I’m fucked, and he gets off scot-free,” he concludes bitterly.

Peter reads the letter, and his face becomes stonier by the second. He looks up, and his eyes flare red. “No, sweetheart, he doesn’t.” Peter stands and strides across the room, grabbing his keys. “We’re going to the bar. I need reinforcements for this.” He opens a drawer, and Stiles’s eyes widen when he sees Peter tuck a pistol into his waistband.

“Peter? What are you going to do?” Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

“I’m going to take my pack, and we’re going to track your friend down. We’re going to have a chat about what he’s done, show him the error of his ways. Nobody steals from my boy.”

A tiny, dark part of Stiles leaps at that, and he thinks, _good_.

“I’m taking the bike. You bring the jeep,” Peter commands, and it _is_ a command. He’s in full Alpha mode. Stiles hasn’t seen it before, but it’s impossible to mistake.

Yes Sir,” he replies, and something in him settles. Stiles doesn’t know how, isn’t sure he wants the details, but he knows that, somehow, Peter will fix this.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter fires off a couple of texts as they head down to the carpark, and when they arrive at the bar Stiles finds at least half the pack waiting, expressions grim.  As soon as Peter walks in, the pack gathers around him, and Stiles can hear him quietly issuing instructions.

He sees the men nod, and Peter comes over, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. “We’ll take care of this for you, baby. You wait here.”

Chris looks at Stiles as if considering something, and asks, “Hey, kid. Ever tended bar before?”

“A little? Did it for a couple months in college.”

Chris nods, and throws Stiles a set of keys. He grabs the sawn-off shotgun from under the bar and walks over to join the group, saying, “Good. Cover for me. I’m going too - I’ll make sure your wolf doesn’t lose his head.” Stiles can _feel_ Peter bristle at the comment, but Chris stares Peter down, which Stiles wouldn’t have believed was possible. “Nobody wants this to go further than necessary, Peter. Someone has to keep you in check.”

Peter gives the tiniest snarl, but Stiles stills him with a hand on his arm. “Hey. I want Theo to get his ass kicked so bad, you don’t even know, but don’t do anything stupid, promise?”

Peter’s mouth tightens, but he gives a terse nod. “I won’t get caught doing anything stupid.” Which isn’t the same thing _at all,_ but Stiles doesn’t push it. He wraps his arms round Peter for a last reassuring hug, before stepping back. “Go take care of business.”

Peter pulls out of his grasp, every trace of softness gone. His voice is colder that Stiles has ever heard it when he nods at the group. “Let’s ride.”

And then they stalk out the door without a backward glance, leaving Stiles alone.

 

* * *

 

After the longest hour of his life, Stiles gets a text from Peter.

**Business taken care of. Back soon.**

Some of the tension leaves his body. He pours himself a beer, draining it in one go. _Taken care of?_ What does that mean, exactly? He quashes the urge to text back and demand answers.

There’s nobody else in the bar, so he’s spent the time wiping down tables and folding napkins in an effort to keep his hands busy and stop his imagination running wild. It’s only been partially successful.

He keeps his ears open, pacing the length of the bar, and soon enough he hears the distinctive rumble of bike engines. He lines up a round of beers for everyone on the bar, and pours a shot of Peter’s favorite scotch, just to have something to do.

When Peter walks in, Stiles is there at the door to greet him. Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’s waist. “I took care of it for you, baby,” he says, a triumphant smirk on his face. “He was very easy to track, and so very quick to apologize. Cried like an infant at the first hint of pain.”

Stiles can’t help but ask, “So you didn’t—he’s still alive, right?”

Peter’s answering smile is terrifying, all fangs and satisfaction. “Of course. He’ll be fine.” He pauses and tilts his head, considering. “Well, fine-ish _._ I hear that kneecaps do heal. Eventually.”

“A decent surgeon, some physical therapy, there’s a good chance he’ll be mostly okay,” Chris agrees, and the icy look in his eyes is just as terrifying as Peter’s smile. Stiles cringes at the implications of that they’re saying. He wonders if he’s a bad person for hoping Theo’s recovery takes a long, long time, but then he thinks about what Theo did, and decides he doesn’t care.

“I left a couple of the boys retrieving your belongings. He hadn’t even managed to unload the U-Haul when we caught up to him,” Peter says disdainfully, as if disappointed it hadn’t been more of a challenge.

Stiles doesn’t know how he feels right now. Technically, he’s an accessory after the fact, right? But he also knows that werewolves have a much more primal notion of justice, and he knows that what Theo did was seen by the pack as an attack on Peter as much as on him, and _that_ , that couldn’t go unpunished. Peter would never allow it.

Stiles clears his throat, getting the attention of the werewolves that make up his pack. “Thanks, guys. It means a lot.” He gets a series of nods, few pats on the back, and a couple of murmured variants on _No problem, kid,_ and then the wolves go back to their beers.

Stiles’s body decides that now is a good time to remind him it’s been a hell of an evening, and he starts to shiver, reacting to the massive adrenaline dump and stress of the day.

Peter hooks a finger under Stiles’s choker and tugs softly. “Time to go home, sweetheart.”

The words are like a stab in the gut, a cruel reminder. “I don’t have a home, remember?”

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow. For now, come home with me and let me take care of you. We both need it,” Peter insists, and well. He’s not wrong.

Stiles folds in against Peter’s side, leaning heavily as Peter wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah. I—yeah. Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter leaves his bike and drives the Jeep, declaring that Stiles is in no state to drive. Stiles doesn’t put up a token protest, too wrung out by now.

Peter doesn’t ask, just hoists Stiles up and carries him upstairs, growling softly when he tries to object, and Stiles is too tired to argue. He’s not sure his legs would work anyway. Once inside, Peter sits him on the edge of the bed and gently strips him out of his clothes, scenting him and rubbing against him. He finds one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweats, before helping Stiles put them on. Then he tucks Stiles into bed, fussing over him, hovering like a parent with a sick toddler.

He fetches a glass of water and insists Stiles drink it, telling him the adrenaline will make him thirsty. Stiles hadn’t noticed, but Peter’s right—he has serious cotton mouth. He empties the glass and rasps out, “Thanks.” Peter nods and gets him a refill, which Stiles also drains.

Peter strips and eases into bed next to Stiles, lying on his back and opening his arms. Stiles crawls into the space wordlessly, letting Peter’s presence and heartbeat soothe him. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, is still jittery and unsettled, but being held is going a long way towards making him feel less like a violin string that’s stretched out and ready to snap.

Peter runs gentle fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, and Stiles feels the tension slowly easing. Neither of them speaks or moves for a long while. Finally, Peter breaks his silence. “It was only one kneecap, by the way.”

Stiles stills, doesn’t quite know what to do with that, so he finally hums non-committally. Peter seems to take it as permission to continue. “I was prepared to do both, but he was already crying for mercy and Christopher insisted I be _reasonable_ about it.”

Stiles lets out a tiny choked sound. “One is fine, honestly.” Because what else is there to say?

Peter moves them so he can stare into Stiles’s eyes. “I’d kill him in a heartbeat if you asked me to, sweetheart. I hope you know that.”

It’s comforting and disturbing all at once, because Stiles knows it’s true. He takes in Peter’s steady gaze, and whispers, “I know. But no killing anyone for me. Promise?”

Peter’s lips quirk up a little. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Stiles imbues his voice with as much resolve as he can manage, which isn’t much right now, given how shaky he feels. He’s pretty certain Theo doesn’t deserve to _die_ though, so he does his best.

Peter kisses Stiles softly and settles them under the blankets. “If you insist. But I could make it look like an accident, I’m just saying.”

Stiles swats at Peter’s bicep. “Behave, and stop talking now.”

Peter, for the first time since Stiles has known him, does as he’s told.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles wakes in the morning, he feels craptastic. His head throbs, his stomach is churning, and his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. He fucking hates adrenaline hangovers. He moans, miserable, and the next thing he knows there’s a palm pressed against the back of his neck, and the awfulness recedes as Peter uses werewolf magic to take his aches and pains away.

Stiles hums in appreciation, and Peter chuckles, voice close to Stiles’s ear. “Better, pet?” Stiles nods mutely and relaxes under the touch.

The pain continues to abate, and Stiles makes an appreciative noise. “Mmmm, keeping you,” he mumbles.

“I should hope so.” Peter sounds amused.

He keeps stroking the back of Stiles’s neck while Stiles huffs and makes little satisfied moans, gradually feeling more human, until finally he opens both eyes and declares, “Okay. Better.”

He sits up and stretches, noting the way Peter’s eyes track his body and linger on the exposed strip of belly skin. He can read Peter like a book, knows exactly where his thoughts are headed, and he shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Peter says, mock-offended. 

Stiles snorts. “I know that face. That’s your ‘ _hoping to fool around’_ face.”

Peter sighs. “You caught me. I’ve committed the terrible crime of finding my partner attractive. I’m a monster.”

Stiles reaches out and runs a hand through Peter’s already-mussed hair. “Normally I’d be all over that, but I need food and a shower and coffee. And then I gotta find somewhere to live.” Just the thought of it has Stiles’s mood plummeting.

Peter reaches out and takes his hand. He’s quiet for a long moment before asking, “Why not just move in with me? You’re here most nights already.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open, because that honestly hadn’t occurred to him. He tries to process it, and he just can’t. Peter opens his mouth, and Stiles holds up a hand. “I—just wait, okay? Before you say anything else, I need food, coffee, shower.”

Because Peter will try and charm him into doing this, will give him a thousand good reasons why he should, and Stiles needs some time to get his head around the concept. So he gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom, leaving a slightly gobsmacked Peter sitting there.

He takes his time, letting the hot water run over him as he turns the idea over in his head, looking at it from all angles. Peter’s right, is the thing. Stiles is here five nights a week. Half his wardrobe is here. Peter arranged for an extra parking spot for his Jeep. And most importantly, his _Sir_ is here, his adorable, bossy, overprotective wolf. Really, he can’t see a downside.

He walks out of the bathroom wearing only a towel and heads for the kitchen, where Peter, eager to impress, has made coffee and is scrambling some eggs. Stiles eats the eggs and drinks his coffee without a word, thinking the whole time. When he’s finished, he pushes his plate away and turns to Peter.

“Ask me again.”

Peter has his elbows on the table, chin leaning on one hand as he watches Stiles with a tiny smile on his face. He looks impossibly soft and stupidly charming and a thousand miles away from the man who went on a revenge mission last night. “Tell me, sweetheart. Would you like to come and live here with me?”

Stiles makes Peter wait a good ten seconds before he says, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Peter says, brows raised.

Stiles can’t keep a straight face. “It’s yes, dumbass. I was teasing. I’d be happy to move in.”

Peter’s out of his chair and has Stiles slung over his shoulder in seconds, making him flail and shriek as Peter carries him back to bed and dumps him there, ripping the towel off him. Peter dives onto the bed next to him, and takes Stiles’s face in his hands. “I should wring your skinny neck for teasing me like that, sweetheart.”

“You love my skinny neck.” Stiles stretches his head back to emphasize his point, and he’s not surprised when Peter pins him down and starts sucking a mark there.

Stiles can feel the deep throb of what’s going to be a monster bruise by the time Peter lifts his head, desire written across his face. His words come tumbling from his lips, tangled, breathless - a mark of how desperate he is right now. “Sweetheart, I want—the wolf—you’re saying you’ll be mine, and it needs—let me take you to bed, claim you?”

Stiles catches the urgency, doesn’t tease this time. “Yes, Sir.”  

 

* * *

 

 

“IT Support, this is Stiles, how can I help you?” Stiles says, mouth on autopilot, mind a million miles away. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Have you tried turning it off and then on again?” He eyes the clock on the wall and tugs absently at his choker while he waits. Seven minutes till the end of his workday—on Fridays he finishes at noon.

His attention’s pulled back by the customer’s voice in his ear telling him that it worked. “No problem,” he says cheerfully, and thanks the deities that it wasn’t Sheryl in marketing. She’s managed to download a virus four times this month by insisting on clicking flashing links, no matter how many times they explain that no, that _doesn’t_ mean they’re “super important”.

 

He glances at the clock. Four minutes. He makes a move to get out of his chair, but the floor supervisor, Harris, taps his watch and glares, so Stiles busies himself tidying his workstation and pretending to read his screen until finally, he’s free. He grabs his bag and shoots out of his chair, throwing a wave to the rest of his workmates as he bolts, eager to get home.

 

It’s Friday, and Stiles has plans.

 

He has a date with Sir and a length of rope.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look! Unexpected sequel!  
> [Double Order of Thighs, Ink on the Side](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323253/chapters/45964165)


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